The CleanSweep Conspiracy (18 page)

The screen behind him flashed the CleanSweep logo and then changed to a map showing the location of the CleanSweep district administrative offices. “This station will keep you informed when we have more information about the locations of sites that will be issuing ID cards. Mark Spears, reporting.” He kept staring at the camera until the cutaway.

As the newscast faded to black, the first real CleanSweep operation got underway.

• • •

Near the intersection of Danforth Avenue and Dewhurst Boulevard, in a side street on the eastern edge of the Valley neighborhood, a two
-
story, red
-
brick building displayed bright
-
red doors that glistened in the sunlight. Neighbors had been pleased to learn someone had purchased the abandoned fire station and were delighted to see the care taken to restore it to like
-
new condition.

“The landscaping and renovations make it look like it did years ago,” a longtime neighborhood resident said. “I used to go there as a kid and ask the firemen if I could slide down the pole. Then came the budget cuts
…
”

Others nodded, accepting his venerable word on the matter. The mortar joints of the bricks had been renewed and carefully tuck
-
pointed, and the window and door frames freshly painted. Flowers graced large planters along the front wall.

Now, passersby were often treated to the clanging of the alarm bell behind closed doors. The chiming had a comforting aspect to it
—
it signaled help would soon be on the way. If the front overhead door was open, they might have been able to see young men and women in khaki uniforms sliding down the pole. But this was no game.

When the station alarm rang on the first day of Operation CleanSweep, as it would become known, Sweeper Team Alpha scrambled to duty. They jumped from their chairs around the lunch table, sending dishes and cutlery sliding.

“This is it, for real!” the station captain shouted. He checked a form on his clipboard and watched the driver, computer analyst, and two sweepers slide down the pole one after the other, just as they had rehearsed.

The main garage door opened, and a Sprinter van emerged. The driver turned the vehicle north first, and then east. They were about to make history. Their orders were to proceed to the address now flashing on the computer screen. The van’s GPS was detailing the distance and directing turns in a robotic voice. “Three minutes to destination
…
two minutes to destination
…
one minute to destination.”

Doug was the team’s computer analyst. He was hunched over a screen and keyboard on a shelf attached to the dashboard. His job was to direct the two sweepers by providing them with intelligence information. He would keep them updated at all times.

“We’re looking for two men,” he said. “They live on the second floor. It’s a walk
-
up. Apartment two hundred and two is the first door on the right at the top of the stairs. They’re in the apartment now. We have confirmation.”

“Do we know what the charge is?” one of the sweepers asked.

Doug wasn’t supposed to reveal what a target was charged with, but he was too excited and let it slip. “They’re two of the lead organizers of the gay pride parade, charged with contributing to moral decay. As if we need a reason. We’re going to have a lot more to pick up after these two,” he said as he looked at the computer monitor.

The van glided to a stop in front of a small three
-
story apartment building. The sweepers picked up the equipment they’d need to make an arrest and ran for the door.

CHAPTER 22

Véri
t
é

M
att sat staring at his computer in the basement. He had never before experienced a feeling of being utterly cut off from friends he could trust. He wished he was back at Le Rôti Français, standing in line, the barista ready to hand him his order. That seemed like ages ago now.

Had Cyberia’s warning come soon enough?

He’d asked himself that question so many times in the past few hours. He had made it through the destruction, and so far, no one was knocking at the door
—
certainly no agents with handcuffs.

The brief communication with his cyber team hadn’t helped, and the admonition of their final words was a warning
—
both explicit and implicit. Matt was cut off from help, and he knew it. He realized he was in danger, targeted because he had investigated CleanSweep and then reported it. His investigation had cut too close to the bone, as some might say. Now the fury generated by his probing meant the considerable resources of Enseûrtech and CleanSweep were pointing at him like an arrow aimed at a bull’s
-
eye.

“I have to think of a way to get in touch with Carl and Susan,” he thought.

He wrinkled his nose, annoyed at the lingering stench of smoke and decay leftover from the riots. The odor permeated everything, had even seeped through the cracks in the building’s foundation and found a way into his basement hidey
-
hole. He knew he wouldn’t be safe there for long. His narrow escape from the subway earlier was only the beginning. Someone was sure to spot him soon. And then
—
game over.

He needed to keep his mind occupied so he could think clearly about his next steps. For something to do, he turned on one of his computers, the one that still held his blog files. With a mouse click, his computer screen filled with the opening page of his very first blog. Matt read the words with melancholy and chagrin.

Was I that naive? My city was still intact then. How did we let this business with CleanSweep go so far?

Reading that first blog was, for him, like returning to an innocence that likely never existed.

The genie is out of the bottle now,
he thought as he began to read.

April 28. VÉRITÉ, a blog by Matt Tremain

Let me tell you about my adopted city, the place I call home. I’ve walked its streets and lanes, leaving few, if any, neighborhoods unexplored.

But by far, my favorite activity is riding the streetcar. I love riding the 501 streetcar between the Long Branch loop and its corresponding turnaround loop to the east. I sometimes ride that vehicle back and forth for hours at a time. It is my chance to breathe in and study the rich diversity of the city. To me, that ride captures our diversity.

From colorful silk wraps revealing the cultural roots of women wearing them to men wearing stiff-necked suits to students wearing predistressed designer jeans—they all blend together as the car glides east, only to turn and head back west, only to turn around and head east. The streetcar does that day after day, and I am reassured by its regularity.

Looking out the window, I find myself curious about a particular man I see regularly who waves his arms as if trying to gather crowds to follow him, guiding us away from some danger only he knows about. I’ve never seen anybody follow him. You may have noticed him as well, standing on the corner of Berkeley Street.

My favorite character, above all, is a woman I call the Dancing Lady. To my eyes, she always seems to be attempting a plié, perhaps a demiplié, or maybe a not-so-grand jeté. I admit to a limited acquaintance with ballet terminology. I silently pray that her dancing gives her pleasure, but somehow I doubt it. She can be seen dancing in her private dance studio on the grass at the edge of Moss Park.

If you live in any large city, you know what I mean by a rich tapestry of colors, styles, and circumstances. If you do not live in a large city, I hope reading this will provide context for my upcoming blogs.

I grew up in Chicago, but chose Toronto as home. I expected different but found the same. Still, I love my Toronto.

Something isn’t right about my city anymore. I realized that the arm-waving man was no longer at his corner, urging us to follow him to safety. Most bothersome to me, though is the fact that, the Dancing Lady is no longer there.

Then there’s the CRO thing. We were all notified recently about something called the Citizen’s Registration Order. All the newspapers, radio and television stations, transit advertising, and billboards said everyone living in the greater metro area was advised to preregister with some new program called “CleanSweep.”

Yours in truth,

Matthew Tremain

• • •

Matt wasn’t the only one experiencing fear at that moment. Carl and Susan traversed several blocks at a near
-
run, trying to stay safe from detection. They were careful to avoid main streets and surveillance cameras. They stopped when Carl held up his hand and tested the door of a parked vehicle. It was unlocked.

“Where did you learn that?” Susan asked as she watched Carl rip the front panel away from the dashboard of a Nissan Versa. Few people left cars parked on the street anymore
—
not since the riots. One of the main reasons they didn’t leave them unprotected was exactly because of what Carl was trying to do now: hot
-
wire the car to steal it.

“Maybe there’s a lot about me you don’t know,” he snapped. “Sorry
—
nerves. I’m almost done. Keep a lookout.”

A spark was visible in the dim light as he touched two wires together. The car started, and they both swiveled their heads to see if anyone had noticed.

“If we can make it out of the city, I think I know a place we might be able to hide out: my uncle’s farm. He called two days ago and said he was packing and heading to Florida to get away from the rioting, even though the farm’s more than a two
-
hour drive away from all this.”

Three hours later, Carl turned off the paved road and followed a dirt road down a slope, over a homemade bridge, and finally up a steep hill. They pulled to a stop in front of a barn that hadn’t been painted in years.

“Uncle Frank hasn’t mowed lately,” Carl said, pointing to the weeds around them. The gray barn siding was a silent testimony to years of bad weather; several boards were even warped enough to allow wind and light to pass through the walls readily.

“Open the door.” The curtness of his order to Susan reflected the tension they were both feeling.

Susan clamped off a retort and got out to do as she had been instructed. The barn door resisted her constant pull, and she tugged harder until it finally conceded the skirmish. When she finally managed to push the door to the side, Carl drove the car into the interior of the barn and turned off the motor. He got out, and they hugged in the quiet surroundings. The only sound came from pigeons in the rafters, cooing as if to applaud the embrace.

Finally, Carl pulled back. He pulled his Blackberry out of his pocket.

“Hardly any signal. I wonder what Matt is doing.”

CHAPTER 23

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

M
att finished rereading that first blog post just as his backup phone started to vibrate, skittering across the surface of the desk. He picked it up and pressed the Answer button before the ringtone kicked in.

“’Zup?,” he said, his mind still focused on reading his first blog.

He was listening to silence, so he checked to see if there was actually a connection. He was on good terms with crank calls
—
another reality of being a provocative blogger
—
but this phone number was known only to Cyberia, Carl, and Susan. He started to close the phone when he heard a question.

“Matt? Is this Matt Tremain? I have something
…
I need to tell you. We have to talk.” Something about the voice, the hesitation, brought memories of Tanner flooding back. It was the pause and the guarded phrasing. The man on the other end was searching for the exact words needed.

“Who is this?” But he knew the caller wouldn’t tell him. Not yet.

“You’re investigating Claussen
—
CleanSweep?”

Matt didn’t say anything. “Who is this?” he wondered, on his guard. Some people used silence to gather thoughts and words together, and he suspected that was the case with this caller.

“The man, Claussen,” the caller continued, “and his ideas
—
they scare me. What happened to your friend Tanner was not an
accident
. The accelerator had been tampered with.”

Whoever this was now had Matt’s full attention. The caller’s cryptic statement about Tanner was tantalizing, and Matt knew he had to hear more. He had to know. “You asked a question that only sounds like a question. You want to know if I’m investigating Claussen and CleanSweep. Then you hint about Tanner, that what happened to him wasn’t an accident.” Matt gripped the phone. “I know they’re hunting me, and it scares the hell out of me. I need to know who you are before this conversation goes further.” Matt said it with as much bravado as he could muster. “If you don’t
—
”

He was about to finish when the caller said, “I can’t tell you my name over the phone. Go to the website for Metro Police Services; tell me when you’re on the home page.”

Matt followed the instructions, squeezing the phone between his left shoulder and chin while he typed.

“I’m there.”

“Click on the heading for different departments. Click ‘Investigative Services.’”

“Done,” Matt said.

“There’s a heading for staff. That will take you to another page, the divisional command site. You will need a username and password.”

As soon as Matt landed on the page devoted to detectives in the major cases squad, he saw a log
-
in box in the upper right corner.

“Use the name of the man you were interviewing as the sign
-
in name.”

Matt typed
Tanner
as the username.

“Do you remember the address of the garage where you first met Tanner?”

“Yes.”

“Use the address number for the password.”

How had someone found out these details? The guy is paranoid, careful
—
or both.

Matt entered the number, and was soon reading the personal page and profile of Detective Wallace Carling.

Matt was unprepared for the emotion
—
it was like being sucker
-
punched.

This guy is a freakin’ cop.

“I see the page,” he finally said.

“You know who I am now. Give me a moment to change the access code back.” In the next instant, the screen refreshed and Matt was redirected to a new generic page encouraging citizens to report any suspicious activity in their neighborhood.

“I know who you are, Tremain, and now you know who I am. Will you meet now?”

“You’re better at this sort of thing than I am.” Matt knew that sounded lame. “All those people are walking around with my photograph
—
”

“We have to assume they’re also listening to your calls. It wasn’t hard for me to track down the number of this phone. They cull through instant messages and e
-
mail messages, sorting by keywords. I want you to take one of your streetcar rides.”

It was hard to keep grasping the phone; Matt’s palms were sweaty. “Won’t people recognize me?”

“Somebody jammed all the electronic signals for you. Your photo was up for an instant. Then
poof
, it vanished from view. Besides, you don’t have much time
—
or a choice. When you leave your building, walk east, to the corner, and get on the eastbound streetcar. Ride to the end and take the loop back to the stop by your apartment building. You might want to do that right now. It’s an excellent afternoon for a streetcar ride. Isn’t riding streetcars something you wrote about in one of your blogs?”

The line went silent, and Matt looked down at the phone’s screen. The call had been disconnected. He tried to sort through the facts, now with a name to match with the caller. Carling, a cop, claiming he knew something about Tanner’s death. He knew about Claussen. Thoughts flashed in front of his eyes as if they were written on mental three
-
by
-
five cards.

I have to meet with the detective, but how?

The temperature was delightful. Matt didn’t even need a jacket, but for some reason he couldn’t explain, he grabbed one before he closed and locked his apartment door. When he reached the lobby, he stood at the door, realizing going out meant taking an even larger risk than meeting Tanner.

When Matt stepped outside his building, he looked up at one of those perfect
-
weather skies; there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. With his jacket over his shoulder, hooked on his thumb, he pushed the thoughts of Tanner to the side as he walked the short distance to the nearest eastbound transit stop. Trollies rolled by this stop every few minutes, so he knew he wouldn’t have a long wait. When one pulled up, the front passenger door opened like an accordion. There was hardly anybody going east at this time of day. Matt waved his monthly pass and made it to a seat before the car lurched ahead. The driver didn’t pay any attention to him.

He looked around. None of the passengers looked like the photograph of Detective Carling, the one he had seen on the web page. At the front of the trolley, a sour
-
looking young woman sat close to the driver, chewing gum at a ferocious rate.

Two young boys sat across from her and were talking, each grasping their backpacks as if they were daring anyone to take them. They gave Matt a suspicious look when they saw him staring at them. He turned away from them, embarrassed at what they might be thinking.

It was warm, and Matt tried to lower the window for ventilation, without success. He folded his jacket across his lap.

Turning to the back, he saw a skinny guy with long hair nodding his head to a rhythmic beat only he could hear. That was it
—
no other passengers.

The transit system’s not taking in much revenue on this trip.

Matt saw a heavyset man waiting at the next stop.

That’s not Carling.

Just before the streetcar got to the stop, someone pulled the cord as a signal to get off. Matt turned again and saw the scrawny man starting to get up. He reached overhead to a pole for balance as the car slowed. Instead of exiting through the rear door as expected, though, Matt watched him lurch toward the front of the car.

When the car stopped, the fat man boarded and started fast
-
walking toward the back. Fat and skinny passed each other right next to Matt. They collided, putting their hands up as if to launch a boxing match. It was almost laughable, seeing them clutch at each other and fall to one side. Matt was glad it was the scrawny one who almost fell into his lap.

“Get off my car if you’re going to fight!” the driver stood and yelled, hands on hips, glaring.

The fat man mumbled an apology to Matt and walked to a seat at the rear. Skinny did his best to swagger his way to the front door and step off the car.

After that bit of drama, the ride to the east end passed uneventfully. The streetcar made the turn at the end loop and heading back west. The trolley stopped several times, and people got off or on, but Matt didn’t see anything unusual. He wondered why Carling had told him to take the ride.

Matt looked down at the jacket folded in his lap. He spotted something white
—
a paper wedged in the folds. It was the corner of an envelope. Guessing it would be unwise to look at it while he was on the streetcar, he folded the jacket over to hide it. Then he reached up to pull the cord, signaling his stop.

Was it from the fat man? Were they both in on it?

He resisted the urge to turn around and look at where the fat man must be sitting. There was little doubt in his mind now that those two hadn’t bumped into each other by accident. One of them had slipped the envelope into the fold of the jacket. It didn’t actually matter which one it was.

Matt got off the car and crossed the street to board a streetcar heading back toward his apartment. When Matt stepped off the second streetcar and turned to walk toward his building, he spotted the surveillance team. It wasn’t his imagination this time. He lived in a close
-
knit neighborhood, and those two stood out. It was the way they were dressed. No one wore suits in this district
—
the area was more suited to jeans and flip
-
flops
—
and he certainly never saw anyone wearing clothes like the pair standing by their car. One was wearing a gray suit that was too heavy for the season. The other wore a hideous
-
looking sports coat that would have been out of place in
any
season or location. They each held a photograph and were looking at Matt’s apartment building. Intent on that task, they didn’t even notice Matt walking toward them on the opposite side of the street.

Matt swiveled and turned his back to them. He walked away, hunching over to disguise his height. He could feel his pulse racing. When he reached the corner, he knew where he wanted to go. He saw the sign ahead for the Java Jivery, a neighborhood favorite, and Matt’s number
-
one place for good coffee
—
their signature blend was perfect for his taste. It wasn’t crowded when he walked in.

“Hello, Matt. Hey, I saw a photograph on TV and thought it looked just like you,” the barista said.

“That’s a funny coincidence, Connie,” Matt said, mumbling an excuse.

He put in his order, then carried his cup to an overstuffed chair in a corner. He turned the chair so he could observe the door and watch for strangers walking past the street
-
side window at the same time. His hand began shaking and coffee spilled over the rim as he placed it on a side table and tried to steady his nerves.

He looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to him, then took the envelope out. He turned it over, front and back. There were two initials printed on the front: MT. Nothing more. It was sealed, but it opened quickly when Matt slid a finger under the edge of the flap. He pulled out the enclosed note and began to read. The handwriting was surprisingly neat.

Dear Mr. Tremain,

Claussen loves his high-tech toys. I’ve been giving this some thought. If we want to avoid detection, we need to go low-tech and stay off his radar. It’s rumored he’s very unhappy with your nosing around. I don’t have to tell you that. He wants to make it dangerous for you. I’m sure we both know what happened to Tanner, even if I can’t prove it.

When you can, look for a letter in your mailbox. It contains some basic letter codes we can use when we are writing each other. I will also include keywords we can use in case we have to talk on the phone. If one of us doesn’t hear the keywords, that means there’s an impostor on the other end. It’s old school, I know, but they will be looking for new school, hi-tech communications. We need to avoid anything electronic whenever we can.

I wasn’t a big fan of your blog at first, but I share your passion for the truth. I also believe in justice. That’s something terrifying about Claussen. I’ve worried about him ever since I learned what CleanSweep may be really up to.

Look for more tomorrow. I will get you directions for setting up our meeting place.

KBO, Carling

Matt refolded the note, put it back in the envelope, and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans. He used a napkin to soak up the spilled coffee and sipped from the cup. He thought about the note as he kept watch for any out
-
of
-
place activity on the street. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he walked to the door. There was no sign of the two strangers he had spotted earlier.

Java Jivery’s coffee usually agreed him, but today he grimaced as he sipped. It left a bitter aftertaste. When he finished his cup, he pulled out the envelope and read Carling’s note one more time. He reread the instructions explaining how the note waiting in his mailbox tomorrow would give instructions for setting up their first face
-
to
-
face meeting.

Matt wondered if all police somehow had access to mailbox passkeys, but he didn’t question Carling’s directions. When he started walking back to his building, he thought about Tanner and fought back an urge to cry.

What the hell does KBO stand for?

When he got back to his building, he saw that the watchers were gone, but Matt knew there would be others soon.

• • •

He couldn’t stay in the basement forever, so he took the risk of going back to his apartment. After a restless night, Matt was walking down to check his mail when he passed Joan Kallmer walking up. They met on the second
-
floor landing. He tried to think of something witty but could only manage a “Hey.” It wasn’t at all witty; he always felt inadequate around her.